How Do You Like Me Now?

by Holly Bourne

  He’s shaking his head. He is not engaging. In multiple senses of the word. ‘Tor, come on. You’re just upset because you’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘No, I’ve just had enough to FINALLY ADMIT THE TRUTH.’

  He yanks me into this little alcove right next to the water and puts his face right to mine. I can smell mussels on his warm breath. ‘I am committed to you, Tor,’ he hisses. ‘We own a flat together. I’ve never cheated on you. We have a cat for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘A cat that you like MORE THAN ME.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re crazy.’ He runs his hands through his hair. ‘You’re fucking crazy.’ He stalks off, leaving me alone. I wait for him to realise I’m not following him but he doesn’t return. I slump against the wall, sliding down it onto the grotty floor, and cry and cry and cry. Part of me knows I’m drunk, knows I’m a mess that cannot be reasoned with. The boats passing me in the river blur in my hazy vision. But I am crying because something is very clear. I finally brought up marriage and the future and at not one point did Tom deny my accusations. Oh, he dodged them, he’s run from them. But the truth is, he hasn’t even considered proposing. You could see it from the shock in his eyes. All those moments – on holidays, or at fancy restaurants – where I’ve wondered … made sure I was looking nice just in case, imagined what the ring would be like (even though they’re a patriarchal statement of ownership that I don’t politically believe in, but everyone wants a nice ring don’t they?) … it has not even crossed his mind.

  Christ, I feel sick. I feel really sick. Where is Tom?

  I put my face into my knees and cry until there are no tears left in my body. Then, I lift my head.

  What the hell have I done?

  Tom? Tom! Oh God. He’s going to be so angry. He’s going to break up with me. My anger floods away and leaves only sickening anxiety. The need to make up for it, the need to make things OK. I can’t lose Tom. I’m not sure why, but I can’t lose Tom.

  I find him at Blackfriars Station, on a bench, his arms crossed, face down. I come up to him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I wail at him over and over again, clinging on to him like a traumatized clam. He tries to push me off but I cling harder, burying my face into his chest and getting snot on his shirt – apologising and apologising. The train arrives with a hiss and he, at least, helps me stagger up onto it. Tom sits opposite me, arms still crossed, head still down.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Tom,’ I mumble. ‘I didn’t mean to ruin the evening. You’re right, I hate marriage. Fuck marriage. I don’t know what got into me. I don’t even want a wedding. I don’t believe in them. Tom? Tom?’

  ‘Tori, let’s just get you home.’

  He thinks I’m too drunk. I’m not drunk. I can be sober. I am totally sober. I sit up straight even though my whole body really wants to lie down. I start making totally appropriate conversation starters like ‘Didn’t Dee look lovely?’ and, ‘You and Nigel seemed to get on well.’ Tom doesn’t engage. The train floor must be so interesting. I really do feel sick. My mouth’s doing that watery thing. My hands are shaking. I swallow down a sour-tasting bubbling burp of bile. I can’t be sick. That will make everything worse.

  Time has passed. I’m back in the flat. Tom is making me drink water. ‘I CAN DO IT MYSELF.’ I grab the glass off him and pour it mostly down my front. I need the loo. Christ I need the loo. I push past Tom and run to the loo and pee loudly like a man. Whenever I think I’ve finished peeing, more pee comes. I flush the loo. I stand up. I struggle to pull my dress out from where I’ve tucked it into my knickers and got a wet stain on it. I look at myself in the mirror.

  I have looked better, I will have you know.

  My pupils are everywhere. My make-up all down my face. My hair limp and sweaty. I’m so drunk. So fucking drunk. I lean over the toilet bowl and, before I even think about it, I push my hand into my mouth and let the vomit loose. The wine pours out of me, the water pours out of me, the chocolate mousse and olives pour out of me. When it’s all gone, when my throat is sore, I grip the rim of the toilet seat for strength.

  How do I mend this? How? I’ve done damage. I’m sobering up enough to know I’ve done something bad.

  When I emerge, my teeth are brushed and my make-up is fixed. I find Tom on his iPad on our bed. He’s just in his pants, cooling down from the heat. His stomach swells over the top of them, all full from his dinner. He doesn’t look up as I enter. He’s just tapping and scrolling, tapping and scrolling.

  I am going to seduce Tom.

  That’s what we need. A good shag. A filthy one because we’ve both drunk too much so we’ve lost our inhibitions. This is such a good idea. This will sort out everything. I don’t want him to see me as that crying woman begging for marriage by the river. I am not that woman. I may’ve been her forty minutes ago, but I’m not her any more. I’m young enough and I’m hot and I’m good at sex and I’m wearing matching lingerie and Tom and I are going to fuck and it’s going to be amazing!

  I stand at the foot of our bed. He still won’t look up. I shrug out of my dress, so I’m just in my gorgeous expensive matching underwear that only Tom gets to see. He doesn’t look up. So I slowly take that off. I’m quite sure I’m the sexiest thing in London right now. I’m now fully naked. I stand there, hand on my hip. I try to flip my hair back but it falls in my eye and it stings actually. Oww.

  Tom looks up. ‘Hey Tor.’ He sounds tired and he sounds bored.

  ‘Fuck me,’ I say in a voice that is not mine. A voice I am putting on. To distance this sexy naked woman from the one swearing about commitment in front of hundreds of people.

  I try to ignore the fact he looks panicked. ‘Let’s get you to bed, shall we? Sleep it off.’

  ‘Fuck. Me.’ I repeat, tossing my hair again.

  ‘Tor, I can’t have sex with you when you’re this drunk.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ I reach down with my hand and start slowly, deliberately masturbating. It doesn’t actually feel that nice because my hands are still cold from where I just washed the vomit off them, but still, I moan. A big porny moan. I once saw Charlotte do this to Trey in Sex and the City and it worked for them. And he was incompetent. Hang on … wrong word. I let out a bigger moan. I throw my head back. I moan again.

  ‘Seriously, Tor. Stop. Please.’

  He will give in eventually. Everything I’ve ever seen on TV where a girl does this has resulted in the man giving in. Even if it’s just hate sex. It’s still sex. And all Tom and I need to do is have sex. To break the seal. To get back into the habit. To feel like a couple again. I climb onto the bed. I straddle him, still playing with myself. I thrust my naked pelvis into his face so he can see up close what I’m doing. He, at least, puts his iPad down.

  That’s the only signal I need. I’m on him. Leaning over. Kissing him. Plunging my tongue into his mouth, pushing my boobs up into his face. He tastes of seafood but we’re still kissing … kissing—

  He pushes me off. ‘Tor, your breath stinks! Have you been sick?’

  OK, so maybe I needed to brush my teeth twice rather than once. Never mind, you don’t need to kiss on the mouth anyway to have good sex. I’ll just be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, she doesn’t kiss on the mouth. I move down to his chest, showering it with licks and kisses, pretending he’s not repeatedly trying to stop me. ‘Tor? Tor!’ I tug at his boxers, which aren’t full of erection like I expected them to be.

  ‘Tori, please. I’m not in the mood. Get off. Please. Come on. You’re so drunk. Tor? TOR!’

  He pushes me off gently but I’m too wasted for the movement and I lose my centre of gravity, waving my arms as I fall to the floor with an oomph. I’m off the bed. I’m in a heap on the floor. He’s down on the ground. ‘Shit, Tor! Are you OK? You just fell like a cartoon.’ He laughs nervously.

  ‘You … you … you don’t fancy me any more,’ I wail, forgetting instantly that I fell. My jaw shakes with emotion. ‘You think I’m disgusting and ugly and you don’t want to have
sex with me any more.’

  He pulls me in for a hug. It’s so tight. Almost too tight. ‘Look, you’re just drunk. I don’t want to when you’re this drunk. It would be wrong. Can you not see that? Of course I fancy you. I love you. Of course I love you. Look, stop asking me, I told you I love you all right! You need to sleep, you need to. Do you think you can get under the covers? Oh please stop crying. I hate that I’ve made you cry. Of course you’re pretty. Of course. Of course. Yes, much prettier than Dee. I’ve always told you that. Please just close your eyes, we can talk about it in the morning. Please Tor. Please …’

  *

  Olivia Jessen has shared a photo:

  No sleep for Mummy and Daddy because THIS ONE has been up seven times in the night.

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  Comments:

  Andrea Simmons: Oh hon! Sending hugs. It gets easier, I promise. Have you tried Gina Ford?

  *

  My body wakes me in angry pain.

  My head sears like it’s been branded. I’m sweating and twisted in one single, sodden, sheet.

  Tom is not here.

  I flutter my eyes open into the purple glow of early dawn.

  The entire room stinks and I have ruined my life.

  I’m not sure what happened yet but I know it’s not good. It hurts to move my head but I try. I curl into a ball on my side. I see dried vomit splattered down the side of the bed, sprayed in puddles that have hardened on our wooden floorboards. I try to get up but let out a small gasp as I do. It hurts too much. My mouth is so dry. Saharan dry. And yet I feel so nauseous I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep any water down. So, for now, I just lie here and watch the sunrise tickle the curtains. I lie here and let the drama of last night break over me like traumatic surf and I stuff my fist into my mouth so I don’t scream.

  I can’t remember it all but I can remember enough.

  I remember screaming ‘WHY WON’T YOU MARRY ME?’ in front of hundreds of people.

  I remember begging him to have sex with me.

  Have I just ruined my life?

  It’s just light enough to see through the gloom. I manage to pull myself out of this sick-splattered sheet and stand up. Cat’s excited by my early rising. She purrs and meows and winds herself around my ankles as I whisper at her to shut up. I pad tentatively to the kitchen and pass the sleeping lump of Tom on the sofa. Seeing him sets off ten different emotional responses and fresh nausea surfaces, making my mouth water. I concentrate on feeding Cat so she shuts up. I pour myself a glass of water very, very quietly. I glug it down and it sloshes into my empty stomach. I feel sick, but I’m still starving. I smear a thick layer of marmite onto white bread – thinking if it works for Dee’s morning sickness it may very well work for my brutal hangover. I tiptoe back to my room, trying not to look at Tom. I do not have the moisture in my body to cry just yet. I know that if I allow myself to start, it won’t be easy to stop. I mop up the sick with some wet wipes and throw the stinky sheets into the washing machine.

  I wonder if he’s going to leave me.

  The thought starts small, like a pinprick, but grows quickly, flooding my body with more nausea. He may very well leave me. I have given him more than enough reason. I have broken things that are difficult to repair. I don’t know if he’s decanted to the sofa because we broke up last night, or just because I vomited all over our bed.

  Maybe both.

  I perch on the edge of the stripped mattress and eat the bread. My stomach yawns and says thank you for it. The light outside grows brighter by the minute. It burns the backs of my eyes, my forehead thuds in protest. I decide to try to go back to sleep, just for a while. I’ve taken ibuprofen and my headache will be gone if I can just sleep for another hour or so. I curl up, dragging a clean sheet over my body, and will myself to relax. But, the moment I close my eyes, last night ricochets back.

  Why won’t you marry me? Fuck me. Why won’t you marry me? Fuck me.

  I was literally a Madonna-Whore last night. How could becoming the epitome of everything Freud says men want result in such spectacularly terrible consequences?

  Have I ruined my life?

  It’s a dark hour in my head – self-hatred and depression sludging their way in. I’m feeling too numb to cry. I have done something that can’t be undone. I’ve said something that can’t be unsaid. I finally asked Tom if he thought about marrying me and it was clear the answer is no.

  No.

  After all these years. After everything we’ve shared. He knows me better than any other human could possibly know me, and yet he looks at me and thinks: ‘Nope, not for me.’ What does that say about me? How terrible must I be to be with?

  It’s over.

  It has to be over. Didn’t you want it to be over, Tor? The voice asks me. Isn’t that what last night was about?

  But now that it might be finished, now that I’ve made this puke-splattered bed to lie in, I’m realising everything I love about Tom. The thought of no Tom makes my heart feel like it’s been thrown into an industrial chicken-shredder. Tom is funny. Tom is ambitious. Tom is charming. Tom is playful. What about that time in Vegas when we won on the blackjack and blew three grand in one night? Or the time when I got my book deal and I came home to our horrid flat to find it filled with daffodils. Or the way Tom holds my hand at scary parties. Or the first time he whispered ‘I love you’ under the sheets of a hotel bedroom in New York – where he’d taken me as a surprise, to tell me just that. ‘I know it’s soon,’ he said, showering my face with kisses. ‘But when you know, you just know.’

  I have not, until this morning, until this clusterfuck of a morning, allowed myself to give any thought as to why I am not leaving Tom. Why I’m holding on so tight. And, as sleep is refusing to find me and as shame is thudding in my skull, I may as well.

  I push myself up in the unmade bed. God, my head hurts. My eye hurts. But I have to face this. I have to work out what’s going on here. There is dried vomit on the floor. My boyfriend has literally just fled from me in the night. I lean over and pick up my discarded laptop and open a blank word-document. I turn down the brightness of the screen until it’s practically grey, and, through my splitting headache, I find myself typing.

  Why aren’t you leaving him?

  Because I’m scared.

  That is what bubbles to the top. That is what I write first. Because I’m scared to be alone. I’m scared that no one else will want me, especially as Tom so clearly doesn’t. I do not want to be single at this age. I don’t want to be out there again. It was bad enough last time but at least I had friends going through it too. I would be the only single one. I’d be the one they don’t know where to sit at weddings. I’ve not met one man that I’ve clicked with since I clicked with Tom. He may be my only hope.

  Because maybe this is just what relationships are like.

  Another scent of a thought. Love is not whispering romantic things under Egyptian cotton sheets. Love has nothing to do with how besotted you are in those heady first two years. The hormones die off – argument by argument. In time, you discover every single flaw they have, and they discover yours. Your baggage, your insecurities, your gross habits, your nasty streaks. This happens in every relationship, right? This feeling that there’s more. The fantasies of what your life would be like with an imaginary different person who doesn’t do the annoying shit this real human partner does. It’s called ‘settling down’ for a reason. Because long-term love always means settling. Settling is the key word. I cannot guarantee that I would be any happier with someone who isn’t Tom. In fact, I may be even more miserable than I am now. At least I’m adjusted to this misery; at least with this misery I know what I’ve signed up for.

  Tom may very well be the only chance I get for this kind of happiness.

  My only shot at marriage and children. Ironic, yes, as he won’t talk about either of them, but he’s closer than nothing. If I left him I’d be starting all over again. I’d need time to grieve the end of this relation
ship, then somehow meet someone else I’m compatible with, which will be so much harder as I’m older and all the good ones are taken. Then we’d have to move in together and see how that goes, and on and on, and I may be infertile by the time I’ve got all that sorted.

  Things might get better.

  Cat pads in and leaps up onto my bed. She presses her paws in and out and rotates on my lap until she settles. I try to stroke her but she bites me. Maybe Tom and I can save this. Maybe last night will blow everything open and we’ll finally talk about all the things we’ve not been speaking about. I activated multiple land mines and we’ve fallen through the earth, but it might be just what we needed. We’ll go to couples therapy! We’ll get an amazing therapist who will talk to us for five sessions and make us realise how in love we are. Then we can have a second honeymoon period and we’ll start having mad sex again.

  The final reason is more a whisper than a shout.

  … I still love Tom.

  I love him so much. When it’s good with Tom, it’s out of this world good. It’s I-feel-like-I’m-in-a-movie good. I have never loved anything or anyone like I love Tom. And I know he loves me. He hates me and I annoy him but he still loves me. If you both love each other that is all you need. You only end relationships when one of you is no longer in love with the other. I push Cat off my lap and tiptoe over to watch Tom sleeping. He’s bent at a weird angle on the sofa yet his face is so peaceful. I watch his chest rise and fall with sleep. I reach out and run my hand over the stubble on his face. He leans into it, even in his sleep, and the love rushes in so strong it’s like I’ve been flooded with it.

  I have to accept that he may wake up and not want to be with me any more.

  The thought fills me with such enormous grief that I let out a weird noise I don’t recognise. I run back to the bathroom and empty myself of the toast. I hold the toilet rim, seeping into the bathmat. I cannot leave him. He cannot leave me. Surely anything that hurts this much is the wrong thing? I curl up on the floor, using the bathmat as a blanket, staring at the cobweb behind the base of the loo. This cannot end. I cannot be in this much pain. I don’t care if it’s wrong, I just need to not lose it.